


I Shouldn't Have Hoped To Know, But Here I Stand

by fireafterall



Series: Wasteland, Baby! [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, I Decided To Write A Fic For Every Song On Hozier's Wasteland Baby!, Other, Slow Burn, no plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireafterall/pseuds/fireafterall
Summary: Crowley feels Aziraphale has turned his back on him a thousand times.(or five times Aziraphale walks away from Crowley and one time he doesn't.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wasteland, Baby! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545565
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	I Shouldn't Have Hoped To Know, But Here I Stand

**Author's Note:**

> Still working through all of Wasteland, Baby! I hope you all are staying safe and please know kudos and comments are always beyond appreciated. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day / night.
> 
> Title from Hozier's No Plan. Not beta'd.

**13 AD - Persia**

“Ah, Crawley, isn’t it? You should know that you are most certainly not welcome here.”

“What, here, in the market angel? Come on, I’m pretty sure anyone’s allowed in, I mean, it’s an open street for hell’s sake.” 

The demon kept his back to the angel, smirking in the knowledge that it would irk him. He wondered to himself how many more centuries this would go on without Aziraphale realizing how  _ fun _ this was. All the time in the world to spend finding all the ways to irritate  _ just one being _ .

“Well I’m pretty sure demons aren’t welcome anywhere, so there,” Crawley could hear his foot stamp to the ground behind him, “be gone!”

Maybe this wasn’t quite as fun as the demon remembered. He finally turned around to face him, rolling his eyes.

“What are you going to do about it angel, kick me out?”

God above, they were petulant children. The two oldest beings on Earth and this is how they talked to one another?

“I will! Like I did at the Garden.”

“Angel, if I remember, which to be fair—,” he shrugged. “If I remember;  _ I  _ was the one who got us  _ all  _ kicked out of the Garden. All of us,  _ all  _ of humanity. So…” 

So  _ what _ , exactly, he didn’t know. He shrugged again.

Crawley shifted his thoughts from his own projected immaturity to give the angel in front of him a cursory glance, from the simple sandals on his feet, to his halo of golden curls. 

“Nice to see you haven’t changed though.”

And truly, Aziraphale hadn’t changed much; one would think the transition from “Great Guardian of the Eastern Gate” to, well, whatever he was now, would have included  _ some  _ change in wardrobe, but the angel looked much the same as he always had, in his usual white robes.

Crawley, on the other hand, had changed so much over the few millennia the world had been around, it was wonder the angel had recognized him at all.

While he had been thinking, Aziraphale had seemed to calm himself. Ah, no fun indeed.

“Look Crawley, I was just out trying to get some shopping done for a family that—” he cut himself off abruptly, his eyes growing wide, “well never mind what, it  _ certainly _ is none of your business, good day to you.”

As he turned and walked away, pointedly  _ not  _ looking back over his shoulder all the while, Crawley called, “Oh come on angel, you know if you leave me in the middle of a sentence like that I’ll just follow.”

The look on his face as he turned back towards him wasn’t as irritated as the demon had thought it would be. Almost as if he had been looking for an excuse to come back anyway. But, of course, that was ridiculous. Crawley would be stupid to even entertain the thought.

Unfortunately, Crawley was stupid quite a lot.

He was back within hearing range in a moment, which, in this busy market place, meant the two of them had to be standing fairly close. Aziraphale’s furrowed eyebrows framing his worried expression. 

Well, not entirely worried, perhaps. The longer Crawley looked, the more he found he couldn’t read the angel’s face at all. 

What could he be thinking.

“If you put it that way, you exasperating thing,” he mumbled.

Crawley decided to ignore the slight if it meant the angel would stay.

“There is a family, down river,” he said, shifting the empty basket across his body to gesture vaguely, not looking Crawley in the eye, “and their fields have been raided by bandits the last few nights. As close to harvest as it is, they’re left without much food and I just thought, well, I thought that they could use some groceries, so I came out here for some vegetables and bread. I— I would of course just miracle them up, you know, but, it is a rather small town, and— and I figure they may know what food is about.”

He was fidgeting with the corner of his robe as he ended this long rambling. Nervously, Crawley thought.

The shrug though, it was the shrug that got to him. That the angel could be so casual about helping these people, so casual about an immortal being, such as himself, even bothering to take notice of those starving, hurting humans.

But Aziraphale had always been like that, even back at The Beginning. The only angel out of all of them who would look upon the first of humanity, thrust out of paradise, and give them a sword. He took pity on them, he  _ cared _ for them.

Cared for the mess of a fallen angel beside him too.

Or, at least, so the foolish demon hoped.

“Hng, look angel,” he tried to soften his voice a bit, just a smidge, “what if you showed me where these people live and I could, hm, wait tonight in their field and, I— I don’t know, scare off the bastards; kill ‘em or— or something.”

Crawley knew instantly he had said the wrong thing, Aziraphale drew back, clearly upset, clutching his basket more tightly as if he believed the demon would snatch it from his arms.

And why wouldn’t he believe that, why  _ shouldn’t  _ he believe that of a demon.

“No Crawley, I won’t fall for this,” the angel said as he backed away, “you’re lying and you’ll just— you’ll hurt them somehow—”

“Angel I was just trying to help, if we just worked together, think how much more we could do.”

But he just shook his head, still backing away.

Crawley watched him retreating, not expecting anything more. But as the angel was almost too far away to hear over the bustling people around them, Aziraphale faintly called back, “Angels and demons just can’t work together Crawley, it’s just not God’s plan.”

The demon wondered if he was imagining the sad look that seemed to cross the angel’s face as he at last turned away. 

——-

**197 AD - Rome**

Crowley found he  _ vastly  _ enjoyed Rome.

In all his many, many centuries he had hardly found a place easier for a demon to live comfortably. The people believed in many, many gods rather than just God, so his slit pupils were thought of as a gift or a curse from some deity or other, and no one cared to find out which.

So the demon went about, creating mischief or sometimes stopping it. Mostly, he found, he didn’t know what he was doing. Or even what he was  _ supposed  _ to be doing. In The Beginning, he had believed this to be a quick jaunt upon the earth; create some temptations, scandalize a certain angel, but it had been  _ millennia _ now and, well, there was only so much of one thing any person could do. Even if they weren’t entirely a person, per se.

In fact, for many years now, Crowley had felt his only real purpose had revolved around Aziraphale. Sometimes that meant looking for him, sometimes avoiding him, but either way, Crowley’s sleeping and waking hours rotated about the only other immortal on earth.

And lately, that had been almost nice.

They had both been residing here for a while; near each other, but not too near, and the demon had found it within his abilities to coax something almost like  _ companionship _ from the angel. Not friends, never friends, he knew, but friend _ ly _ acquaintances, perhaps. 

Or at least, that was how he himself saw the two of them. Though he knew better than to ask Aziraphale his thoughts on the matter.

“Ah Crawley, sunning yourself again, you old snake?”

See it was things like that which left him confused, is one to assume a friendly greeting or rather an antagonization? And even after nearly a decade of telling him, the angel still couldn’t get his damned name right.

He didn't move a muscle from the blanket upon which he  _ was  _ sunning himself, not that it was anybody’s business, for his deadpan reply. 

“It’s Crowley, angel.”

“Oh right, well you can’t expect me to remember everything about a demon.”

Still without moving, though almost irritated now, Crowley mumbled, “A name is just one thing though, Aziraphale. And, hey, see there? I remember yours.”

The angel, too, was getting irritated now, he could hear it in his shuffling sandals. 

“Well  _ Crowley _ , if you are going to be so— so particular over small things than perhaps I will just leave. Not that I should be here anyway, no idea what I was thinking— with a demon of all things I really—” he dropped off into grumblings.

Sighing, Crowley finally rose up on his elbows and opened his eyes to see Aziraphale looking, more than irritated, angry.

Recently, the demon had come to realize something about the angel; whenever he was near Crowley, his temper always seemed to get the better of him. And if not his temper, then something else; crying when he thought he couldn’t be seen, sullen fits of silences. And while he wished he could proclaim it to be his own bad influence, or all the hard work he put in to annoying him, it didn’t seem to be Crowley’s fault at all, or at least, not his fault _directly._ It seemed to him that Aziraphale couldn't stand his _presence_. No matter what he did; good or evil, kind or terrible, the angel couldn’t seem to bear being near him. And the more time they spent together, the worse it got.

He wished he could be confused by this but, as an angel’s reaction to a demon, it unfortunately made a fair amount of sense.

Crowley got up from his blanket, regretting it only slightly as he did, to follow the angel.

“Wait, wait, you can call me Crawley if you want,” he said, almost caught up to him now, even with his slow sauntering gait; Aziraphale must not have been walking very quickly. “One must, I suppose, make exceptions for one’s only acquaintance.”

He turned crossing his arms, irritated yet again, “Acquaintances? We are  _ nothing _ of the kind.”

“Well what would you call us then?”

“Enemies, of course!”

“Well enemies can still be acquaintances; in fact, I kind of figure they have to be. ‘Else you’d just be hating someone you’d never met. Besides angel, I only meant that we’re the only two immortals down here, and I mean, we’re bound to run into each other. From time to time.”

Was that the ghost of a smile of the Aziraphale’s lips? It was certainly at least a sliver of approval, more than the demon usually got.

As they continued walking, Aziraphale stepped ahead to break the brief silence, turning back to face him.

“Alright then, I suppose you aren’t entirely wrong.” The angel looked a bit nervous; he was shuffling his feet and sending up small clouds of dust that were irritating Crowley’s snake eyes.

“Don’t laugh now, but I came to see you because— because well, I find I—” The rest of the sentence was lost on him to murmuring; while snake eyes may be exceptional, their hearing was nothing to write home about.

Rather than comment, which would surely antagonize the angel further, Crowley simply waited for him to finish speaking. He was waiting a while, and through quite a bit of mumbling, but when it came, it all came in a rush:

“I suppose I find I could use your help, Crowley.”

He peered up nervously through his eyelashes, but any anxiety was wasted.

“Of course, angel, what do you need?”

The nervousness turned instantly to puzzlement, then caution, but both were ignored in favor of administering instructions.

“Well, it really is a small thing, but, you see, I find myself unable to buy a treat that I have recently become fond of, ice cream, they call it, and, and, the man in the merchant stall who has some will no longer sell any to me.”

Crowley did laugh a little, he couldn’t help it, “Ice cream is that all? Ha! The way you were going on, I thought it was something like the end times.”

“See, you promised not to laugh! Oh, I know it’s silly, but the merchant, his name is Felix, won’t serve me anymore, because, well, he said I associate too low.”   
  


“Associate too low?”

Aziraphale drew his arms around himself uncomfortably, “As an angel, you know, I often find myself going to those, hm, less fortunate than ourselves, or than Felix, rather, to help out. Sick people, widows, orphans, and the like. I guess it is a part of my reputation now, consulting with undesirables, and  _ of course _ I wouldn’t give up my sacred, angelic duty for something as petty as sweets, but I do find that, if possible, I should like to have both.” He seemed ashamed by the end, though by what Crowley couldn’t fathom.

“Well, we can’t have that, I suppose.”

A small smile graced Aziraphale’s gentle mouth.

“Thank you, it really is silly, I know, but—”

“No, no, ice cream, I get it. very important,” they had almost reached the market stalls now, “Or at least I  _ mostly  _ get it, having never tried it myself.”

He expected some kind of response to that, perhaps even a repeat of the ‘let me tempt you’ mishap. But the angel was a silent companion for the remainder of their walk.

When they neared Felix’s market stand, Aziraphale looked over and nodded, then disappeared into the crowd.

He was so serious over this ice cream, Crowley almost couldn’t believe it.

Smothering a laugh behind his hand, he made his way to the vendor quickly, and ordered one of what was, apparently, Aziraphale’s favorite sweet.

“Actually, you know, on second thought make that two.”

The man nodded and, after disappearing for a moment, returned with two bowls of something that rather resembled snow. The demon thanked him, all the while resolving to return later and threaten Felix, upon point of death, to allow Aziraphale his vice. 

He might as well exhibit  _ some  _ demon-like behavior in this whole affair.

Walking back into the crowd, it was only a moment or two before he met back up with Aziraphale and handed over the ice cream, which was, irritatingly, already beginning to drip down his hand.

“Oh thank you, Crowley! And I see you got one for yourself as well, very smart, they are truly exquisite; even a demon, such as yourself, has a chance to appreciate it.”

The angel was somehow able to consume his with dignity, while Crowley found himself forced to resort to licking sticky trails from his hands.

“Yes, well you spoke so highly of it, I figured I’d better. What do you say we eat them together angel? Just sit down somewhere on the edge of the city…”

Crowley realized instantly he had made a mistake, as Aziraphale began backing away, his face scrunched up in distress.

“Together, Crawley? An angel and a demon, no, you know we could never— it’s just not—” he stuttered as he, almost desperately it seemed to Crowley, walked away, pausing only to call back over his shoulder, “It isn’t God’s plan.”

The demon watched him walk away for what felt like, and well could have been, the thousandth time.

When he finally looked back down, his ice cream was completely melted.

——-

**1351 - England**

In a small house, made of stone and just south of London, an angel tries to sleep.

The moon is full and, if there were anyone around to see, they would see he is restless. He tosses and turns; his wings phasing in and out of sight, in and out of existence. 

Sometimes, he cries.

The angel stays in bed through the day, though he still finds sleep impossible, and as the sun sets, welcoming another night, he simply lies there.

Lies there on his back, wings once again hidden away. He doesn’t move or even seem to breathe, the angel is completely still, barely seeming alive.

He lies as such for many days; sometimes, he believes he can hear the people crying.  _ All _ the people, those dying and those weeping for the dying, both. No plague has ever been so destructive, has never been so inescapable in its ability to deliver hurt. The angel’s home is far away, he felt he couldn’t stand to hear, couldn’t stand to live on in his endless immortal life with all these sounds of human suffering in his head.

He wants to help but he knows all too well there is nothing he can do. He has watched the light go out in too many eyes, watched too many final spurts of blood from parched mouths to believe he can change anything, help anyone. 

He feels broken. Finally broken.

It felt the ultimate punishment to him; to be an angel, kind and loving, worse than anything, worse than  _ falling _ , to have to bear witness to all this suffering.

So he lies there, too weary to rise, and so, so still.

Many nights pass (the angel knows not how many) before he hears his door open.

It is old and creaking and impossible to mistake, as are the footsteps that quietly make their way towards him.

It is a demon, and yet, the angel is unafraid.

Words are spoken, from the demon mainly, short sentences that contain no shallow apologies, no questions why, no expectations.

The angel only says a name, over and over and then:

“Stay.”

And so the demon does.

He lies beside the angel, between his body and the window, as if to protect him from the outside world and its pain.

They are barely touching at the start, but the angel’s quiet crying brings the demon’s arms to wrap around him, to hold him close, to comfort.

He feels it’s wrong, he knows, but then why does he feel the first touch of heavenly peace since this whole thing began with the touch of the demon’s hands?

They lie there for months, unmoving. The demon sleeps, the angel does not. 

Eventually, like all things must, the plague passes.

The angel can feel when it is gone. He lies still a few more days then, without warning, leaves.

He looks back, only once, at the demon who still sleeps, and there seems to be a battle in his mind.

He wins or he loses, but still the angel walks away.

_ Far above, their maker looks down on Her creation. She watches the angel walk, watches him turn back, and she holds her breath for a happy outcome. Silly when She knows how all things will be, but She cannot help but hope. It is all She is made of. He still turns away; leaves as he always does. She wishes She could teach him not to be so scared, but She knows that is another’s job. The demon who still lies there, though he sleeps without rest now; arms empty in the angel’s absence. _

_ She cannot look any longer. _

\-----

  
  


**1959 - New York**

Crowley had seen Aziraphale only twice since she had taken up residence in Brooklyn. 

She knew he  _ vastly  _ preferred Europe and so, after a certain incident in a certain church after which a certain angel chose to avoid her; she thought a change of scenery might be in both their best interests.

And thus: New York City.

The transition had been good for her, new faces, a new energy, all a great distraction from the angel she loved.

“Oh, I must be  _ drunk  _ drunk,” she laughed to the man sitting next to her at the bar; knowing he had no idea what she was talking about, that he could never imagine what she was thinking.

“Nah, nah baby, a woman can never be too drunk for my tastes.” 

Damn this man was an asshole. That’s what she got for presenting as a woman, she supposed; what a depressing thought.

Deciding this situation would be handled much better sober, she took care of it, reopening her eyes as the man reached for her, his eyes closed he leaned in…

Crowley broke the asshole’s fingers.

Leaving him screaming, she exited the shady club and made her way down the street to where her favorite jazz bar was located.

It was her favorite for many reasons; the music was great nine out of every ten times she went, and she could get drunk as hell itself without having any problems with anybody.

Also, completely unrelated, she had seen Aziraphale there, twice. Both times she tried to speak to him, though she had no idea what she would even say, and both times he left before she could fight her way through the crowds to his side. 

It was stupid of her to keep expecting to see him, especially since he clearly no longer wanted anything to do with her, but no matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t stay away.

Sidling in through the doors, she made her way to the open floor space near the band; getting drunk hadn’t helped tonight so perhaps music would.

The band playing was one of her favorites, they were simply fun to listen to, fun to dance to,  _ and _ they featured several female vocalists. Crowley found she couldn’t get enough of women these days.

Already minutes deep into a song, the floor was covered in dancers, or rather, dance partners. No one was dancing alone. That was okay with Crowley though, she had gotten used to this and would simply wait for the next song.

That or the right partner apparently, for there was Aziraphale, walking nervously in through the front door, only minutes behind herself.

He looked the same as always and today it was a comfort rather than a minor irritation. Crowley was staring at him, torn between hoping (praying, even) that he would look her way, and afraid that once he saw her, he would leave. Again.

He remained unaware of her presence for several minutes; simply wandering around with unclear purpose, but, completely coincidentally, she was sure, making his way in her direction. She had not been able to take her eyes off him since he had arrived, and finally, when he found himself only steps away, he stopped, looked up, and smiled at her. Crowley wondered if he knew who she was, but even with that uncertainty, she could not stop her own mouth from barely smiling back.

“Ah, Crowley there you are,” the angel said, still smiling.

Still smiling at her, he  _ knew _ , and still he smiled.

Her face cracked open and she embarrassingly beamed back at him.

“So you recognize me then, angel?”

“Of course I recognize you, you silly demon, you never change.”

Never change, ha, imagine that.

She must have still been slightly drunk, as she reached for his hand, clasping it in her own wiry fingers to say, “You said ‘there you are’ and yes, here I am.”

Oh God, she was still very, very drunk.

“Yes here you are,” Aziraphale slurred, clearly drunk as well.

“Ah you’re drunk then angel.”

“I am, well, well, so are you!”

“And that’s why you’re here; you’re dr—” 

“No you silly demon,” apparently this was something Aziraphale called her now, “I’m here to dance with you.”

“Ah okay you’re here to—” she dropped off as the words sank in. Beautiful words, words she had never thought she’d hear. It was just dancing, of course, nothing serious, but this meant Aziraphale wanted to be near her, wanted to  _ touch  _ her. 

She stared into his eyes a moment, sure he would change his mind. But the beautiful angel only stared back; a look in his eyes that hurt a bit to see.

Hurt in a good way, though, hurt in the only way a demon could feel anything for an angel.

She pulled his hand she was holding to her waist, as the next song began. He let her. She reached for his other hand and held it tightly, pulling their bodies together. He let her.

_ “ _ _ That certain night, the night we met. There was magic abroad in the air.” _

The two of them swayed slowly, neither was any kind of dancer really, and this felt safest. Safe as an angel and a demon could be.

_ “And a nightingale sang, in Berkeley Square.” _

“Berkeley Square, hm,” the angel peacefully mused, “that’s near where I live now, you know, I have a bookshop.”

She had seen his bookshop, many times, he was simply too drunk to remember. She meant to tell him this but when she opened her mouth all that came out was:

“I know, angel. I know, I know.”

Holding Aziraphale tightly as she was, she knew he couldn’t see her face as she allowed the tears in her eyes to gently fall.

When the song ended, they froze a minute, still holding each other.

Then Aziraphale took a deep breath, she could feel his chest expand against hers, and let her go.

He looked at her another minute, and she worried he could see she had been crying.

Then he raised a single finger to his mouth as if to beg for her silence.

He smiled a small, bitter, melancholic smile, and she watched him leave.

For several minutes she felt she couldn’t move; couldn’t stop staring at the place where he’d stood while the people all danced around her. She worried she had imagined it all, but she could still  _ feel  _ him.

Never before had he held her like that.

More than anything else, what stayed with her was the last image of him leaving, finger to his lips. She knew it meant that he couldn’t stay, that this couldn’t happen again, that heaven and hell and God Herself would stop their small chaos, their loose thread in Her plan.

But she couldn’t help but think it meant he would have loved her, if he could.

——-

**The Last Day Of The World - London**

They rode the bus to Crowley’s flat together and holding hands.

It didn’t feel like a step over a line, or any kind of step at all, it just felt natural. Felt  _ safe _ . 

Felt like home.

“I suppose I’ll stay with you tonight, and— and then,” the angel sighed, his voice soft and weary, “then I suppose I’ll find somewhere else.”

Crowley, by now, knew better than to ask him to stay, knew better than to tell him he was welcome until the world really did end, knew better than to tell him he never wanted him to leave.

So he just sat there; exhausted in so many ways.

“Of course I may not have to worry at all about ‘after today’,” Aziraphale continued, “heaven and hell might just discorporate us, permanently…” he dropped off and Crowley thought he felt him grip his hand a little tighter.

The demon still felt too much like nothingness to speak.

“I’ll miss you, you know.”

Crowley turned but the angel was facing away from him.

“Miss me, angel?”

“Well, I don’t— hm, I don’t really think upstairs or downstairs will be too happy with us. I probably— well we might not see each other again, my dear. Not after tonight.”

Aziraphale had come around to face him, and the demon could see the angel was feeling the emptiness too.

He was right after all; after six thousand years, they had one more night. One more night for Crowley to say all the things he wanted to tell— no, that would be selfish. That would push him away in the final hours, and the demon knew he would be unable to stand it.

So they just looked at each other in silence as the bus rolled on.

When they arrived at Crowley’s flat, the demon realized the two of them had at some point during the ride, dropped their hands. So it was separate and apart that they made their way through his front door, one last time.

As they crossed the threshold, Crowley indicated with a tired flick of his wrist where Aziraphale could go rest. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, the angel never did, but if there was ever a time for rest, it was now.

He had almost made it to his own room when he heard a weak shout from down the hall.

“Crowley.”

He turned round.

“Yes, angel?”

They each looked at the other for a moment before Aziraphale quietly spoke.

“I wish things could have been different Crowley, I’m— I’m just sorry, that they can’t.”

He was in his room with the door closed before the demon could say a word.

——-

**Approximately Thirty-Seven Minutes Later - Still London**

“Aziraphale, please open the door, please, angel.”

Crowley’s hands were shaking, hell, all of him was shaking, but there was no putting it off. No time left to them except now.

He had waited six thousand years,  _ wasted _ six thousand years, he couldn’t afford to waste the few hours left to them— 

The door opened. 

“Crowley, what—”

“Aziraphale, you said you wouldn’t put it past Her, that you thought God could have planned all this— this,” he watched his own hands gesturing wildly as he tried to explain, “this  _ insanity _ , and, angel, if She had planned for all of this; then couldn’t She have planned for us? Because all I—”

Aziraphale grabbed his hands from the air and held them close.

They stayed that way a moment, just breathing.

Aziraphale looked up to meet his eyes.

“Crowley, you may be right, I don’t know. I don’t think I know much of anything anymore.”

The demon felt his heart sinking in his body.

“But I don’t think I care either way. If we are a part of Her great plan or if there is no plan at all, I  _ don’t know.  _ And I just don’t care Crowley, I love you and—”

Crowley kissed him. Gently, softly.

He felt the angel’s mouth smile, and then the angel kissed the demon back.


End file.
